


in the blue dark, waiting

by Snickfic



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Ceaseless Hunger, Drabble Sequence, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-10 10:06:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/pseuds/Snickfic
Summary: The Valkyrie's blade is thirsty.





	in the blue dark, waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madeinessos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeinessos/gifts).



The Valkyrie’s blade is thirsty. (She was Brunnhilde once, but now the name fits like leather boots ruined in water. Useless. So: the Valkyrie.) 

Its thirst was whet by Hela’s blood—a single drop, shed from porcelain skin. One by one the Valkyrie cuts down the enemies of these lost, bleating souls, these scattered sheep. Her blade sings at its work, drinks its fill, slakes some need in her she hasn’t felt in an eon, not since—

The king is pleased with her; it’s been a long, long time since she’s pleased a king. This one’s missing an eye, too.

* * *

Thor is always hungry. “You’re healing,” Heimdall says, as though it were nothing. 

Loki, wry, ironic: “You _are_ a god.” 

Their stores are limited. Thor hunts and barters and earns his bread and is never satisfied. His socket aches perpetually, as if Hela cut him yesterday. “You’re still healing,” Heimdall tells him. 

“My eye isn’t.” 

Loki squints, saying nothing. 

He can’t tell them it’s violence that sates him like a meal, a feast. Bone giving way beneath his fist, lives ended by a zap of lightning: the sustenance of monsters. He isn’t this anymore. He will not be this king.

* * *

Death is nothing, nowhere, without sensation or object or subject. This is no Nifleheim, no prison realm kept in Odin’s pocket. It is empty.

Then: a drip. 

After some meaningless duration: another drip. 

Another, more, a patter of moisture joining into a stream, a current, a flood. Nothingness divides: wet below, less-wet above. Lightning flashes. Thunder bellows after. The wet is rocked with waves like blows.

She exists. She floats on the surface. She sees with fresh-formed eyes, tastes the sea on her tongue: dark like wine, thick with iron and salt. She drinks deep, and becomes, and plans.

Soon.


End file.
